


blonde in noir

by winluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Narration Heavy, not beta read we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: What is a boy but an amalgamation of everything that he has allowed himself to desire?(the human body and the act of consumption, the punishment of our collective desires, a memoir by Sakusa Kiyoomi)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 154





	blonde in noir

**Author's Note:**

> hi! scenes are inspired by various fics. also, this isn't proofread or edited so some scenes might seem redundant? or disconnected? also some might be factually inaccurate and some things are changed to fit the narrative :( sorry for that but i hope you still enjoy it somewhat :]

_ “You wanted to think of yourself as someone  _ _ who did these kinds of things. You wanted to  _ _ be in love and he happened to get in the way.” _

(an excerpt from Richard Siken’s  A Primer for the Small Weird Loves, from ‘Crush’)

  
  


**i. how do you let yourself grow familiar with things that are out of the bounds that you let yourself touch?**

Kiyoomi finds comfort in familiar things:

Which is why he finds comfort in the way in volleyball, practice makes perfect. Bends his wrist further back to improve his flexibility, stretches his legs until his knees ache during lunges, completes all the laps of his runs until his body gives out from fatigue the next day. 

Which is why, when his upperclassmen back at Itachiyama High ask him why he doesn’t just do the exercises slower, thus using less of his power, thus being more efficient, he asks them back, “What’s the point of slacking off?” Their captain Tsukasa shakes his head at them, but doesn’t waste a word on reprimanding them. He’s a bit of a pushover that way. Kiyoomi knew better than to let himself laze around and waste time taking detours when he could get himself used to pain. Sure, he knows when to save his energy, use only what he needs in the beginning of a match, then take the win for his team. Sure, it seems lazy to the people watching them  in the sidelines, but the win he makes is also a win for their school, bumping them up to place in championships.

Sure enough, practice makes the sharp bursts he feels from muscle pains dull to softer aches blooming in his joints that he eventually commits to memory.

Which is why he finds comfort in the few crutches that he has allowed himself to depend on. The list of things isn’t too long. There’s Komori, the only cousin he can stand talking to and standing in the same space as, the only person he has allowed to witness his vulnerability. 

Komori has been able to watch as the tears pricking at Kiyoomi’s eyelashes flow. Been the one to hold up his hair as he laid his head on the toilet seat and puked his guts out after drinking too much. Been there when the world is too much, comfort shrinking before his eyes.

Which is why he finds comfort in the little things that complete his routines— the travel bottle of mouthwash stuffed in the side pocket of his duffel bag and a tube of lemon hand cream bought by a relative tucked away in another compartment. Shrinks comfort down to a bag, another box, another repetitive routine. Routine breeds familiarity, and sure enough, familiarity breeds comfort.

He allows himself to want things, sure, like any other human being. Again and again, he is reminded that he is just another human being like anyone else and there are times when he wants something. Adds to his cart: a new black dri-fit shirt, a thermos filled with hazelnut coffee. Adds to his grocery list: a stalk of celery next to a mini bag of honey butter chips (to be eaten later at home with chopsticks). Wants things, desires things.

Which is why he never allows anyone else to open him up and peer into the empty space of his heart like he’s turning into a specimen for them to experiment on. He never allows anyone else to inhabit the small space he takes up in the world. He never allows anyone else to touch him for too long, too hard or at all due to the fear of his palm burning beneath his touch, dry ice circling his wrist and climbing up his fingertips, burning down the only thing he has ever found solace in: his body.

His body has never been a good receptacle for human touch. His irrational fear of unfamiliar things stems from his family. He finds something unnerving about the way he has never been allowed to come close, never been able to see his father outside of monthly dinners, never been able to meet any of his other cousins. 

His fear of being touched leaves his hands shaking whenever his fingers brush against another’s when he reaches for the light switch or a slice of pizza. His fear of being held is rooted in the violent hands of other people— holding on too tight whenever they hug him, grabbing the collar of his shirt to make him face them. 

His body has always associated human touch with the cruelty of a little beast, never with mildness amidst the extremities, never with tenderness amidst the violence. 

Which is why he associates human touch with love. A boy that has never known what it is like to be touched without being broken would find it so easy to confuse these vague concepts with one another. Human touch is always selfish in his eyes, never kind, never gentle. Love is something unfamiliar, something he has never cared to explore. Kiyoomi has always known that love can make you do crazy things. Maybe it does. Maybe.

♥︎

Kiyoomi doesn’t remember the first time he fell in love, because he never recognizes it the first time he feels a beat of his heart, a tremble in his hand. Never realizes it when he feels time stopping still in front of his eyes.

But there are boys that Kiyoomi has always associated with times where only good things happen:

There are boys that taste saccharine to the lips the first time you talk to them. So sweet, always so sweet. Sugar-coated words and sweet nothings uttered in his ear, brushing against the cartilage and pinching at his earlobe. Kiyoomi feels something blooming in his chest when he looks at them, his heart swelling a little when they praise him for his topspin serves or flexible hands.

There are boys that make Kiyoomi’s skin crawl, like the feeling he gets when someone touches him hastily, the cold of their touch burning into him like liquid nitrogen. His wrist feels numb, then turns into starfire. His body into blisters. His mouth melting into a river, then wading back into water. There’s a tingle running down his hip bones, yellow-gray bursting up his veins. His bones on his skin, turning his skin to wax, the wick of his candle flickering into a house-fire. Dry ice, into fire, into a boy.

Faint, dreamscape boys walking past him, fading into a memory crammed into a body. There are boys that can make Kiyoomi not want to forget the cold of their touch, the warmth of their mouths. Solemn, sullen boys and a glint in their eyes, blue darkening into indigo. There are boys that can make Kiyoomi want to drink them in, the sharp, intoxicating taste from a crumpled Sapporo that is then thrown hastily into the rubbish bin, savored into a memory tucked away into the back of his mind. Boys that Kiyoomi can’t forget, no matter how much he wills them away, mortified at the thought of being known.

There were many other boys back then when Kiyoomi was even younger and yet even more naive. Countless boys catalogued into the edges of the pink squiggles of his brain. There is a gentle brush of hands between the concrete of the bleachers with the paint peeling away, superstructures waxing into submission and solitude waning into a want for something more. There is a slow waltz of the feet, graphite gray against bright yellows, a gentle step against his toes like sand under his feet. A steady tiptoe into a touch, cautious hands unlearning the parameters of grace, then he lets himself drown in it. He lets himself be swallowed by the mouth of a boy’s bicycle, chains tugging at his feet as he rides uphill.

But then again, there are also boys whom Kiyoomi can place a name, a face, a feeling to. There was Tsukasa in the hurriedness of today, light hair gelled back to the top of his head, eyes going soft when he looks at him. Kiyoomi lets himself break into jagged pieces in front of him, the crown atop his head falling from grace. He lets himself startle. Five years worth of crafting indifference shatters into glass and morphs into frustration that settles under his skin. Tsukasa watches as the cassock of the minister tumbles down to grace. He watches the steady breath shift into tears pricking at the corners of Kiyoomi’s eyes. Indifference turns into tenderness, but Tsukasa can’t take any more of the guilt eating away at his throat. He lets Kiyoomi whisk away the feeling into apathy once more, glass shattering back into titanium.

Looking back, Kiyoomi has always loved boys like him. There was Wakatoshi in middle grade, with dead-blank eyes settling into a glare, then softening into a look. He catches Kiyoomi off-guard, then lets him fall back to the earth. Something hot, painless tingles under his hands, begging for escape. Heat turns into numbness and boy turns into air. Kiyoomi looks back at the boy with sharp eyes blown wide, heart thumping under his jacket. He watches him fold the handkerchief, damp side in, tuck it in his pocket. There is a soft, inexplicable thump of a heart, solid and burning pink under all the numbness. A year of longing, dark eyes darting across the room for only one glance. A year of denying, then another year.

And then there was Shinsuke in the summer after seventh grade, flanked by static electricity around the edges. A wave of air rushes between them, suffocating Kiyoomi until he can’t breathe, hands rushing to his throat. Then Shinsuke looks at him, golden eyes flaring into a name of a forgotten star. Kiyoomi feels a shy, sharp shudder igniting under his veins when he looks at Shinsuke as he catches the volleyball between his arms that looked like they were built for receiving, the wicked quickfire spin coming to a stop, the sound of synthetic leather slamming into the side of the court. A wave of jealousy flashes under his eyelids when he let his eyes wander to where Shinsuke is, flashing gentle and congratulatory smiles of victory to everyone else.

And there are some boys that you meet at one point in your life and you can’t help but  _ hate  _ them. It’s a natural reaction, the feeling of fight and flight response kicking in your gut. There is the steady resort to violence when things go too wrong, or go too well, same difference. 

Then there is Miya Atsumu in high school, standing on the other side of the court, all hooded golden eyes and piss-yellow hair. You know, the kind of hair that only a mother could possibly love. You know, the kind of eyes that always make him seem like he’s trying to provoke someone (although, to be fair, when was the last time he has been kind with his sharp tongue?) The first time Kiyoomi sets his eyes on him, he feels a sharp rush of blood under his skin, lip curling when he watches him boast after a spike serve.  _ Disgust _ . It must be disgust.

Then there is Miya Atsumu. He’s twenty three years old now and he’s standing on the same court as Kiyoomi, still equipped with the same air of confidence as before although there is something else, something akin to a breath of wisdom around him. There is wisdom in the fluidity of his plays, kicking off the seamless pour of the volleyball in the hands of his teammates, always doing his utmost to be able to give the best toss, go all out. There is wisdom in the way he watches before letting his hands move, the movements of his body perfectly constructed, controlled by his mind. There is wisdom in the way he comes into contact, the way he lingers.

Then there is Miya Atsumu in the partial shadow of an  _ izakaya _ in the middle of Tokyo, tucked away behind the alleys and neon-lit shops. There is the quick flash of a tongue, dark pink under the glowing light surrounding his skin. Pale violet sinks into the narrow of his jaw, dry ice resurfacing in his skin and looking for something to burn. But there are some things that don’t always go as expected. And so, the glass minister burns into a boy, melting under his hands and glowing on his parted lips.

There is Miya Atsumu, with his tongue doing wonders to the smooth surfaces of his salt-simmered skin, touch burning him back into ashes. The boy holds him, and in a lapse of his judgment, gives the boy himself to break. There is the slow, steady build up of his hands around Kiyoomi’s neck, dragging him in then pulling away. He winds him up with his words, tunes his body to the curl of his finger, then leaves him hanging around for more.

There are boys that can make Kiyoomi crave the rush, the feeling of a hand running down his chin. And here, Atsumu comes stumbling into his life, his hand stuck in the narrow space of a doorway. Falling into the narrow tunnel, the chambers of Kiyoomi’s little heart. He edges the steady feet of a setter’s grace into the liminal space between Kiyoomi’s wide arms. And so, Kiyoomi’s paper skin is scrubbed raw when the pitch black curls into the night, pale neon lights clinging to Atsumu’s head like a fading halo fit for an angel crashing down to the world.

(Kiyoomi doesn’t let himself grow familiar with Atsumu. Instead, he allows himself to stand closer to him during practices. Instead, he allows him to reach a hand over in his personal space. Instead, he allows him to wedge himself in the corners, get in the way of his comforts.)

Kiyoomi turns twenty two, but he’s still learning how to tune his body the way he wants, still learning how to be less brittle, less like glass, less like his origins of wants.

**ii. the blonde, bathed in black and white like a noir film, looks at him and he finds himself hooked, eyes trained on the other boy as he bares his body for him to touch.**

“Hey. I’m home.” A slow, melancholy song plays in the background as his cousin slash dorm mate Komori types away at his laptop, long fingers gliding across the black keys like he has been working on it for days. In spite of playing for different teams, they had decided to live together in the same dorm. You know, for convenience. 

Komori suggested and Kiyoomi agreed, unable to say no to the unspoken promise of fresh air, away from the hard-hitting smells of Salonpas, sweat and knee pads. Sure, Kiyoomi treasures the familiar things and vivid memories, but not enough to live surrounded by them.

“Sakusa! Where the hell were you last night?” Komori asks, exasperated. There is something synonymous to dread settling in the furrow of his eyebrows, the fighting of tears as he blinks them away and replaces the worry with disdain. “I almost filed a missing person case for you.” He places a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

Kiyoomi does nothing but blink at him. He can’t dig up the words, but he pretends. Pretends that his body isn’t burning up still, with Atsumu’s phantom hands roaming the edges of his body. “What did I do to you?” he says blankly, the emotion drained from his tone, its leftovers still staining the off-white sheets of the bed he slept in.

Komori looks at him. There it is again, the small pout of his lips whenever things don’t go his way. “You never tell me what’s going on in your life anymore,” he says. He leans back on the seat and stretches out his arms.

Komori asks too many questions, too many that Kiyoomi can’t find a single blind spot to look away from the calculating gaze of his eyes. Komori asks too many questions that Kiyoomi can’t even find the answers to, cutting away at Kiyoomi until he can’t find enough time to breathe, barely enough space to hear himself think. 

White lies tumble from Kiyoomi’s glass mouth like hard candy lodged down his slick throat. “Nothing happened to me, okay?” Kiyoomi says. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to stay up for me.” He hands Komori a box of steamed dumplings he bought on the way home. “Here, you can have them for lunch. I’m not hungry.” Looks at him. “I’m fine. Stop looking at me like that. Like you don’t believe me.”

Komori takes the box, then looks at Kiyoomi. Observes the jagged pattern of his breathing, like a heavy weight has been dropped on his chest all this time. Notes the quiver of his bottom lip, the waver in his voice. Takes in the tell-tale signs of a half-truth, the indications of how he denies himself. A curious attempt to contain him in one heavy glance. “Yeah, okay, I believe you. Thanks.” He hums a low tune, swaying to the somber music.

The reply is curt. It’s too blunt for someone as bright, as cheerful as him. Kiyoomi tries to cushion the echoes of his lies, but they stockpile. Kiyoomi lies— lies about last night’s endeavors, lies about a boy he hates, lies about the feeling of ice burning his hands, eyes igniting his skin. Kiyoomi lies— lies about the boy that isn’t his, the boy shining under the sun dipping into the horizon. Kiyoomi lies— lies about the threshold of hating a boy.

Kiyoomi ponders the fine line between liking someone and hating someone. His mind wanders to all the boys he has ever liked. Wakatoshi in middle school with his hands that look like they would be so soft to touch and his eyes that Kiyoomi has always wanted to be able to peer into. Then Tsukasa in ninth grade, smiling, always smiling, even with a broken ankle and tears in his eyes and the taste of defeat poisonous on his tongue. Then there was Shinsuke on the other side of the net, with a gentle expression always present on his face, black gray hair always circling the top of his head like a halo. 

Then, Atsumu. Kiyoomi thinks of graphite gray shoes against linoleum and movements in quick succession. His rough hands slamming against synthetic leather. Kiyoomi thinks of piss-yellow hair tucked under a black cap and face half-hidden in the silver shadows of the moon. His rough hands trailing over his skin, skimming his body like a mapc like it’s something made to be worshipped. Regret swirls around his neck, but the first sip, the first taste of satisfaction fills up his lungs.

“Fine.” Kiyoomi sighs. “I went home with someone.” 

♥︎

Kiyoomi thinks back to last night, water still filling up his lungs, his mouth still brimming with water, the taste of a boy’s salt-kissed skin simmering on the surface of his skin, no matter how hard he tries to scrub it all off. The black soot leaves traces against his marble skin, ashes of the night never fading away from the view. The glass boy shatters himself back to pieces whenever he thinks of boys he shouldn’t be thinking about at unholy hours.

A sliver of sunlight slips from the crack of the window. Dawn falls on Kiyoomi’s head but here he was, running back to the fantasies of yesterday. Transports himself to the delusions of the night before. (There, Kiyoomi is sitting on the edge of the bed. White pillows and white sheets. Clothes folded neatly beside him.) Rewinds the tape further, and suddenly, he’s swirling beside Atsumu with Kiyoomi’s fingers wrapped tightly around his hips.

(There, Kiyoomi forgets how much he hates Atsumu.)

Kiyoomi watches as the black and white ceiling fills the night with desire. A breeze blows against the window, a branch of a tree scraping against the blinding opacity of steam covered glass. They fill the four corners of the room with the noises they make, sweet to the ears.

The lights are switched off, but the lamp illuminates the pitch black night with pale yellow. Kiyoomi watches the boy of yesterday. Watches as he puts his kiss-swollen lips around Atsumu. His surgical mask lies forgotten on the bedside table. Watches as he lets Atsumu roam his hands over his body in a way that feels like worship. 

In the blonde’s careful, cautious hands, the glass boy has never felt more transparent. In the blonde’s gentle touch, the glass boy has never felt more warm, tender.

There is something distinct, something gentle about the way he touches him. Like he’s afraid of hurting him. Like he’s afraid of burning him to ashes like everything else he has held before. Like he knows too well of the power his hands wield, going past spike serves and steady receives. Watches as he lets himself touch him, let his touch linger on the moles marking his glass skin. (The clusters are barely there, fading away. A contrast to the moles on Kiyoomi’s forehead, parallels of dark.)

Kiyoomi lets himself touch the other boy with no trace of the same hesitation as he would do anything else, the same cautiousness as he would approach anyone else. He touches him like he’s sticking his hand into the microwave when the quartz tubes are still glowing red. He touches him like he’s no longer afraid of getting his hands burnt, cutting his fingers on rough surfaces. He touches him, like he’s trying to restrain him in his touch.

Kiyoomi watches as the boy of yesterday lets his knees dig into the brown carpet. The smell of cigarette ashes and drying spots of spilled liquor linger in the threads, but he forgets. (His sharp nails carve crescents into the dips of Atsumu’s waist but his fingertips remain light, a passing wind against his skin. Atsumu arches his back, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of Kiyoomi’s mouth around him.) Watches as his own restless hands come to a halt. Wipes the sweat off his face. The beat of his own heart is barely audible against the noises Atsumu makes, noises that bounce off the corners of the room.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu pants, “keep going.” His hand rests on the top of Kiyoomi’s head, calloused fingers gently tugging at his soft black curls. “God, you feel so good.”

(What Atsumu says, Kiyoomi does.) And so, Kiyoomi nods his head up and down faster. His tongue is already at work on pleasuring Atsumu to the best of his ability, swiping up and down as his hands craft careful, deliberate motions that almost make Atsumu forget his own name. Kiyoomi grazes his teeth on him, lodged in the back of his slick throat, heavy against his tongue.

And so, Atsumu shape shifts before him. His nightmare dressed like a daydream. His face morphs into that of pure pleasure as his body dissolves into stardust in the hands of Kiyoomi. (Atsumu has always been weak for boys with hands that always sought out to please him.) And so, Atsumu lets Kiyoomi touch him everywhere, touch him where his skin is a lot softer and a little less refined. The smooth curve of his tan shoulders, the line marking the way to his neck from his ear, inner thighs. All this, to be able to take up more of Kiyoomi’s space.

Kiyoomi watches the boy of yesterday. Atsumu digs out a tissue from the leatherette box sitting on the bedside table, pupils blown out and wide. (Kiyoomi finishes and wipes his mouth with the tissue Atsumu handed him.) “Omi-omi,” Atsumu says breathlessly, still drunk on the feeling of having Kiyoomi’s lips wrapped around him, “I think you ‘ave the mouth of a god.” 

(Kiyoomi sets his eyes on bare skin, then looks back up to see Atsumu’s eyes blinking sleep out of them. He watches as he struggles to keep his eyes open as he speaks, before collapsing in a peculiar starfish position, not bothering to pull the zipper of his jeans up.)

“I didn’t ask about what you think, Miya.” Kiyoomi sighs and flops down on the bed beside him, albeit a little reluctantly. “Scoot over.” (Kiyoomi feels gross as he slides off his shirt over his head. He can tell he smells like strawberries and rubber and sweat and something that smells distinctly like Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi  _ knows _ he smells gross. He contemplates telling his dorm mate and cousin Motoya to get the hot water running so he could take a bath the moment he gets home.) 

Atsumu curls up beside him, hogging the blankets that are obviously too short to cover both of them. “Come here,” he says. When Kiyoomi doesn’t budge from his current position, he whines and wraps his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist. “I told ya to come closer, Omi-omi.” He pulls Kiyoomi toward him so his back lays flush against his chest, legs tangled together under the white sheets. “Wouldn’t want ya to fall off the bed and bruise your pretty face, hmm?” (Kiyoomi hates him. Feels his blood boiling under his skin whenever he says things like this like they don’t mean anything coming out of his mouth.)

Kiyoomi watches the boys of yesterday as they lie back to chest on the mattress. Watches, as his last night-self stiffens against Atsumu’s touch, back straightening as he kneads his skin. Atsumu doesn’t notice. He tries to keep himself awake, wriggling behind him and babbling about things Kiyoomi couldn’t care any less about. He animates anecdotes about his week, voice high and excited. Kiyoomi can feel his resolve weakening as he listens to the other boy talk about his friends, family, his brother. Countless stories compressed into characters. 

(But no, Kiyoomi doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to know him. Doesn’t want to know him outside of team practices, doesn’t want to know outside of afterparties. Kiyoomi tries to convince himself that he couldn’t care any less about Osamu’s god-sent tuna onigiri, couldn’t care any less about a boy with black hair and sharp eyes and equally sharp mouth. He tunes his voice out and tries to sleep, but he can’t stop thinking about how long this will last. How long, until he slips away from his grip? How long, until Atsumu decides to pursue greater things? How long, until he decides what he wants?)

“Meet me in the gym tomorrow,” Atsumu says. “Gotta have all the practice we can get.” He shifts into another position and digs the sharp of his bones further against Kiyoomi’s skin. “I missed ya, Omi. We don’t spend time with each other outside of volleyball shit.” Chuckles, as he nudges his face into Kiyoomi’s space. “It got me thinkin’ if ya really hated me that much all this time.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer. Instead, his breathing grows steady. Feels himself grow warm, pink all over. Atsumu doesn’t notice. He buries his nose in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck and lets himself sink into him in this unholy magnetic union radiating between them. “Shut the fuck up.” Atsumu stirs beside him, reeking of beer and sweat and something that smells like love.  _ No, not love. _ “Go to sleep already. We both had a long day.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t have to look at him to know that the boy behind him is smiling. He’s always smiling, always trying to provoke him. “Goodnight, Omi-omi,” Atsumu calls out, a grin settling on his face. The smile on his face isn’t trying to stir something in him, but Kiyoomi feels his heart waver nonetheless.  _ No, this is definitely not love.  _ (Kiyoomi watches, as the boy of yesterday trails a hand over Atsumu’s head, tucking the sheets around him. He watches himself watch him sleep.)

_ But if this isn’t love, then what else do you think it is?  _ Kiyoomi does not know what to tell himself. He looks at Atsumu and his eyes feel like they are spinning inside their sockets. He looks down at the wick of his candle and sees it slowly extinguish itself. Pale yellow flickers in the night. Kiyoomi wonders about the parameters of being free. He wonders how something that should be suffocating to someone as meticulous as him feel so liberating. Makes him feel like a balloon rising in the air. (Kiyoomi feels  _ filthy _ . Fingertips scorched, lips splitting.)

**iii. how do you even begin to list the ways you want him to touch you, when thinking about them already feels like reciting a long-winded litany?**

There is a brief flicker of light in Atsumu’s eyes once he sees Kiyoomi on the court the next day. Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu, discarding the old irritation with which he used to look at him. He replaces it with keen attention. Searching for the boy from last night, searching if his eyes held any memory. There is a brief flicker of light in Atsumu’s eyes, the same way his eyes look when he delivers a powerful serve, hands always in quick-fire.

“Ah, you came,” Atsumu says. Then his face bursts into a shit-eating grin. “In more ways than one.” 

Kiyoomi punches him on his arm, but it’s half-hearted, barely flicking his knuckles against him. “Shut up.”

“Ow!” Atsumu holds his arm. “You’ve done nothing but tell me to shut up all this time, Omi-omi.” Lets out that loud, obnoxious laugh he’s always had. A faint light from the ceiling closes in his eyes and twinkles. “But ya weren’t really doing anythin’ to stop me last night.”

Kiyoomi glares at him. His top lip curling, skin crawling like something is climbing up his spine. “Don’t mention it anymore.” It pains him to say it, but his mouth works faster than his mind and he says, “Let’s just… let’s just forget that it ever happened.” Inwardly, he grimaces at himself. He pulls off his mask and tucks it in his pocket.

The skin of Atsumu’s forehead creases as he looks at Kiyoomi. There’s a hurt in his eyes, flickering so quickly that Kiyoomi almost thinks that he only imagined it. But then he’s nodding, smiling again, like he said nothing at all. He rushes off over to the other side, holding the volleyball with one hand.

Kiyoomi’s eyes flick toward drywall, then the blue foam of the padding of the walls, then the boy of yesterday’s dreams. He watches as his dreamscape launches itself back and forth into existence, stealing away the beauty of the night before. Watches, as Atsumu, standing wide in front of him like the sun rising on the horizon for the whole world to see, standing so close to him like he is trying to contain himself for just the eyes of one boy.

“Come on, Omi-omi!” Atsumu calls out. Then Kiyoomi watches as his hand flicks against synthetic leather, so quick that he almost doesn’t see it coming. Watches as the boy of today comes into position to receive the ball.

Kiyoomi watches as the boy of today catches Atsumu’s serve between his hands, splotches of pink appearing onto his forearms. He groans, “What the hell, Miya?” He manages to get it up, but his wrists still sting from receiving a high-power topspin serve like no other.

“Eh?” Atsumu says. “You’re doing great, Omi-omi!” His eyes narrow into crescents as he smiles at him. “Are ya getting tired already? We can take a break.” Then he steps back to dig the ball back up with little effort. 

Kiyoomi glares, then slams his hand against the ball. The force grazes against his fingertips, a bleeding cut forming on the ball of his index finger. “Shit,” he mouths to himself, not wanting Atsumu to hear. “ _ Shit _ , not now.” He stretches his wrist like he’s trying to wring it dry, a stray tear pricking at his eye. Not now, when he has to keep himself in top-shape for upcoming home games.

“What happened?” Atsumu runs over. Insists to see Kiyoomi’s hand. Holds it in his, holding it so gently like he’s a porcelain doll, like he’s afraid to break him. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, reeling back from the sight of blood. “I’ll get the tape. You can— you should rest for now.”

“Okay.” Kiyoomi hesitates. Then adds, “Thank you.” He watches as Atsumu frantically searches for the keys to the drawers where they keep the medical supplies, free for the whole team to use. He almost flips the cabinets over, searching for alcohol and cotton balls and tape. 

“Huh. You brought a lot of stuff,” Kiyoomi says. The words pass by, wind breezing past the lockers and the emergency kit Atsumu is holding in one hand. It’s only an empty remark— a rare attempt from Kiyoomi to maintain conversation with someone else. 

(Inwardly, Kiyoomi wonders how long it has been since he had last talked with someone else for more than two hours. Wonders how long it has been since he had last let his hands brush against another’s, without snapping them away like he had been set on fire. Wonders how long it has been since he’d last let him burn like this.)

“You know as well as me that it’s unsanitary to leave a wound like this.” Atsumu brushes his finger, ghosting over Kiyoomi’s hand, gentle as air, light as a feather. “I always did this to ‘Samu back then, anyways, ‘cause he’s always jamming his thumbs on the damned ball.” He laughs. “Sunarin, too. Aran-kun would nag at us all the time about keeping ourselves in good condition.”

_ Ah, Sunarin _ , Kiyoomi thinks. Feels something sharp in his chest when he hears the name. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to ask, when nostalgia is clear in the twinkle of the other boy’s eyes as he talks about him.

“Come here,” Atsumu says. Edges nearer to Kiyoomi, knees nearly brushing together, faces coming closer. Atsumu swipes an alcohol-soaked cotton ball across Kiyoomi’s finger. His hand burns with his touch, a ring of ice forming around where he holds his wrist. “There.”

Kiyoomi bites back a wince. He resists the urge to coil his hand back, stops himself from flinching at his touch. “Just get it over with,” he says. He’s almost breathless, as though he’d been running laps around the gym.

Atsumu stays silent as he snips off a short strip of tape. (“That’s too much. It’s just a finger.”) Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu runs his own finger across Kiyoomi’s hand. Atsumu’s knees nudge against the fabric of Kiyoomi’s old green jersey shorts and it takes all of Kiyoomi’s physical strength to stop himself from coiling away from him. (“Better mind where you touch me, Miya.”)

Sure enough, Kiyoomi quietly indexes this to the list of memories he allows himself to treasure and hold on to. Adds it to the collection of things he wants to relearn.

Kiyoomi is twenty two, eyeing the corners of affection with the same wariness he looked at the world, body full of nerve endings and fraying ends, seams coming apart, learning how to break the barriers of touch that he had set only years ago on the days he was afraid.

**iv. the blonde, dressed in black and gold, holds him in his arms and he replays the moment over and over in his mind, never growing sick of it—of him.**

The Schweiden Adlers and MSBY Black Jackals face off against one another in the Sendai City Gymnasium and sure enough, the Jackals win the match. Kiyoomi spots Hoshiumi, all smiles even though they had lost, as he walks toward the restroom with Kageyama. He’s saying something about facing off his greatest rival and Kiyoomi thinks his face is too overjoyed for someone who should be a little bit more devastated than this.

Along the way, Hoshiumi barks out a remark. There’s a deep-seated crease along his eyebrows and Kiyoomi feels a slow, steady shiver creep up his spine. There’s something about the smaller boy, so similar and yet so different to his teammate shouyou, that unnerves him. “Shouldn’t you look a bit happier about your win?”

“Shouldn’t you be more dejected about your loss?”

Hoshiumi comes to a halt in front of him. Crosses his arms around his chest and glares at Kiyoomi, exuding more confidence than anyone else that is twice his size. “You,” he says. “You guys got us this time. But we will defeat you the next time we see you. Get ready.”

Kiyoomi blinks. “Yeah, sure.” He holds his hand up in a wave at them, before tossing the thick strap of his black duffel bag over his shoulder. “Good luck on that.”

Hoshiumi pauses to consider his statement. Considers the blunt tone and the sharp choice of words. Kiyoomi could be a bit too blunt, too direct at times. Considers swatting Kiyoomi before thinking better of it. “We will!”

Kageyama nods, holding none of the aggression, none of the intimidating aura of the years before. His smile has calmed to the expected dull grin from a first-string setter shown in television cameras. “Thank you for the game, Sakusa-san. We hope to see you again.”

“Bye.” Kiyoomi proceeds to nod toward their direction, until he hears the faint sound of loud footsteps against the rubber floor and someone calling his name growing louder. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Atsumu running toward him. Doesn’t have to look back.

Atsumu holds his hands up for high fives. Kiyoomi looks at his hands like they are poison. Could be. Might be. “Come on, Omi-omi,” he says, “we won! You could at least congratulate me.” There’s a growing pout on his closed pink mouth and Kiyoomi would kiss it off his face if there aren’t too many people around them.

“Dumbass,” Kiyoomi hisses, “I’ll congratulate you later when we’re alone. Not here.” He pauses. Glares at the other boy as if he’s the one at fault for his slip-up. “I mean. Not like  _ that.  _ Stop giving me that look, Miya.”

Atsumu blinks at him, feigning innocence. “What look?” His face cracks into a grin. “I’m just kidding about that, Omi-omi! I’m fine with whatever way you wanna tell me how great I am.” There’s a glint in his eyes as he talks.

Kiyoomi bares his teeth at him, lip curling in a familiar grimace. “Stop talking to me in public. I just don’t want other people to see us talking. They might think we’re friends or something.” Crosses his arms, slouching his back further like he’s trying to make himself disappear.

“Or something,” Atsumu says in a sing-song voice. Then chuckles, taking no offense at all at what Kiyoomi had said. “You have a way with words, Omi-omi.” His hand pings the back of Kiyoomi’s dri-fit shirt, letting it resound into a satisfying snap, harsh against his skin.

♥︎

Their captain informs their libero who informs the other teammates in the team group chat that Koutarou would be holding an afterparty at his home. Adriah texts them the details, saying that Koutarou said that he was busy preparing the snacks and drinks. Atsumu snorts at this, knowing all too well that he would be spending his time making out with his boyfriend who travelled three hours just to see him.  _ Love can make you do crazy things. _

Atsumu texts him to tell him that he’ll be picking up at his house. Kiyoomi jumps out of his bed, immaculately laid-out white sheets dented with the heavy imprint of his body against it. “Ah, fuck.” He leaves them for later. (Komori rolls his eyes and wonders what’s gotten into him, but not before fluffing the sheets back into shape.)

Kiyoomi scans through his closet, almost all black and white, for something to wear and after a few minutes of hesitation, finally chooses an outfit with Komori’s help. 

(“Why are you trying to look good?” Komori says, his hands flicking through endless turtleneck sweaters and tight-fitting jeans. “I bet you’re trying to impress a boy or something.” He observes Kiyoomi. “Aren’t you?”

Kiyoomi denies it. Shakes his head furiously, like the mere thought of having his eyes on someone disgusts him. “No,” he says. Glares at him. “No way. Stop being such a hopeless romantic, ‘Toya. It’s disgusting.”

An unfamiliar smirk coats Komori’s lips. Kiyoomi has to blink. “Not so hopeless after all, dear cousin!” he hums, then turns back around to pick out clothes for Kiyoomi.) 

They step into the host’s house standing mere steps away from each other. There’s too little space and yet also too much space at the same time between them for Kiyoomi to feel comfortable. Atsumu pulls the door open for Kiyoomi and lets him enter the room first. 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes then tells him he’s being too much of a gentleman for his own liking. Tells him not to act like he would scrub the door knob with a wet wipe before even letting his hand graze against it. Tells him to stop acting like he thinks the world is radioactive.

(Kiyoomi could almost hear Komori’s faint laugh in the back of his head. He knows him too well. He sees too much of the window cleaner and spray bottles, too much of the bristle brushes and microfiber cloths. Too little of comfort, too little of his cousin’s vulnerability. He could almost hear him saying, “Oh, but you would.”)

Neon lights sweep across the room, bathing them in shades of pink once they stride past. Kiyoomi winces at the brightness of the room and the crowds of warm, sweaty bodies around them, but Atsumu seems to love basking in the heat of the stares of other people. He glows brighter like a flame in the midst of the attention. 

Koutarou is already drinking the moment they step into the living room. He’s holding a red cup in his hand and beckoning for them to come further inside. “Hey, hey, hey,” he greets them. “Come on in!” Kiyoomi imagines the exclamation points glowing brightly above his head like a speech bubble from a shounen manga.

His boyfriend steps in between them. “I’m sorry for the commotion that he is causing.” Laughs, but only fondly. He only ever looks fond, looks in love. “Please come inside, uh, Miya-san and—” He stumbles, racking for a name, then looks helplessly at his too-drunk boyfriend.

Kiyoomi cuts him off, trying to be as polite as possible. It takes little effort to do so in front of someone who is as wonderful, as loved by the world as him. “Sakusa. It is a pleasure to meet you, uh, Bokuto-san’s boyfriend.” Then smiles— a rare, kind smile. Atsumu looks at him.

“It’s Keiji,” Koutarou interrupts. “Akaashi Keiji.”  _ The love of your life _ , Kiyoomi adds the unspoken words for him. 

(Kiyoomi watches as Koutarou wraps a protective arm around his boyfriend’s waist. Watches, as Keiji flushes red. From the wine, or from his touch. Watches, as he pulls him over to the kitchen to get some food. He feels a pang of envy pass through his veins. He feels gross, feels disgusted at the serpentine blood running through his body. Then he finds himself wondering,  _ how does it feel like to be loved that much? _ Wonders, how does it feel like to know and love someone else that much?)

♥︎

Atsumu leans his elbow on the marble counter. “Hey,” he whispers, “gettin’ bored already?” His lips are mere centimeters away from brushing against Kiyoomi’s face and Kiyoomi feels his face flush pink. From the heat, from the beer he’s drinking. He convinces himself that it has nothing to do with the boy beside him. 

“Don’t worry, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says. “There’s a lot of things I have planned for us to do. A lot of things... that involve my hands wrapped ‘round your neck.” His tone drops to a low, dangerous whisper against Kiyoomi’s ear. Kiyoomi feels his lip quiver, his breath hitching until he recollects himself fast enough to be able to retort.

Kiyoomi wills the inappropriate thoughts away, wills the blood rushing downward away. Feels liquid nitrogen rising under his skin, feels his blood growing warm. Neon light burns against his back and the faint beat of his heart can be heard under the string of silver around his neck and the feather-light fabric of his cream turtleneck sweater, audible amidst the silence of the night. “Miya,” he mutters, “stop saying things you don’t plan on proving. You’re all bark and no bite, asshole.”

“I’ll show you what I wanna do to you, baby.” Atsumu takes him outside, calling out to Koutarou a made-up excuse about getting some fresh air. He’s holding— he is  _ holding  _ Kiyoomi’s hand as they walk over to his car. To his surprise, Kiyoomi doesn’t bother jerking it away.

Atsumu sits on the driver’s seat and pulls the other boy into his lap, pressing the button to roll the side windows down, but only slightly. Both of them aren’t willing to take the risk of getting caught doing ungodly things in a car. Public indecency and all. “This is fucking hot,” he admits. “I’ve always wanted something like this. You know, you sitting on my lap an’ shit.” Groans as Kiyoomi grinds against him. “God, Omi, you’re so  _ hot _ .”

Atsumu fiddles with his collar with one hand, pulling the buttons open. A sliver of bare skin then peeks out from Atsumu’s button-down shirt, exposing the planes of his chest. He uses his other hand to pull Kiyoomi closer to him, wrapping it around his waist. Gently, intently. Like a boy coming close to flames. Like a boy in enrapture.

Kiyoomi puts a finger to his lips. His hand comes to a still. His body relaxes. Melts. Stops trembling. He gulps down a breath of courage before coming closer to him. “Stop being so vulgar, Atsumu. Such a dirty mouth.” He watches as Atsumu’s pupils widen at the mention of his name. Brown-black eyes flaring golden with desire.

Kiyoomi moves toward him. Eyes glossing over. Hand climbing up to touch his face, gripping it toward him. Traces a slow hand on his gold necklace. Brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear, then smirks down at him when he bucks his hips up. “Eager, aren’t you?” 

“Tell me how ya want me, Omi-kun.” Atsumu’s voice sounds like he’s running out of breath. His hair looks soft, tousled from the way Kiyoomi has been raking his fingers through them. His windowpane check pants are forming a tent across the center and Kiyoomi feels him rub against the backs of his thighs. “Touch me,  _ please _ .” Atsumu wraps his fingers tighter around his waist, the other hand stroking the zipper of his tight-fitting jeans.

(What Atsumu wants, Kiyoomi provides.) Kiyoomi has always been weak for boys who feel like they have to beg for a drop of his affection, because like everything he has allowed himself to desire, he only gives out love in small doses. And Atsumu is a boy who only allows himself to give in spades. Feel desire climbing up his bones. Want the satisfying ache of victory after a long, rigorous home game. A lot, or nothing at all. And so, he pulls down his mask to his chin. Leans in to close the space between them and kisses him. They are moving, the heat of their bodies synchronized with one another, the warmth of their mouths closed against each other.

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu bites down on his lip in pleasure, his chest swelling with pride. He’s letting him ruin him, crush the celebrity setter down to pieces. He watches as Atsumu whines in agony as he leaves his body aching, thighs bucking up scrounging for release. Kiyoomi cuts him down to size then promises more the next time.

“Fuck, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says with his hand down the front of his jeans. “You make me feel so good.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, meticulously wiping down his cheeks with a microfiber cloth. Then the back of his jeans where Atsumu rubbed against him. Then, the bridge between his nose and lips. Makes sure he does not leave a trace of Atsumu’s scent, Atsumu’s taste. 

Then, he scrubs at the compartment lodged between them. Leather burns against his warm skin. The moon is shining on his back and he can’t spare a glance at it, fearing that the boy in front of him, head still woozy from Kiyoomi’s touch, would just stand up and go. 

Kiyoomi only lets himself want affection in small doses, but then again,  _ what is a boy but an amalgamation of everything that he has allowed himself to desire? _

**v. how can you tell what other people’s real intentions are when you have never been familiar with the way your body feels when they touch you, hold you?**

The night is young and they are standing together in someone else’s balcony. Remnants of silver moonlight scatter in the sky stretching above their heads. Kiyoomi looks up at the star-striped night sky, his head perched on his elbow that is leaning against the peeling railing. 

No. His elbow hovers an eyelash away from the railing, his body refusing to touch the white paint that stares up at him. The paint threatens to scrape against his elbow. A chill crawls up the back of his neck. Kiyoomi has never been fond of letting things touch him. He nudges himself out of crowds to avoid touching anyone within his squared range, ducks his head almost involuntarily to avoid hitting his head on low-hanging ceiling lights. 

Atsumu laughs. Pats Kiyoomi’s back, startling him until his elbow rests on the railing, breaking his trance. He watches as the flex of Kiyoomi’s forearm collapses into place. “Relax, Omi-kun,” he tells him. “You’ll get tired if you stand like that all night.” He rests his arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders, feeling the other’s back stiffen.

Kiyoomi tries to shake his arm away. “It’s alright,” he says. “I’ve gotten used to it.” And sure enough, he has. His body finds comfort in his own restlessness, almost as if he has never allowed himself to relax amidst the touch of other people. His hands fall into the carefully practiced, familiar routines he has held on to for eleven years. A crutch to fall back on. Which is why he never allows anyone to come close to his 7x12 space, except the people he has always known, especially the people he doesn’t plan on letting himself get comfortable with.

Atsumu digs up an already opened box of Marlboros from his pockets. Raps the bottom against his palm. “Stubborn, aren’t ya.” He sighs. Flicks his lighter open. Strikes a steady spark on his cigarette until it lights up, ready to swallow the white end up in flames. 

“I thought you were trying to keep a healthy lifestyle,” Kiyoomi remarks, eyes trained on Atsumu’s cigarette. His gaze is wary, like it might bite him. “We’re athletes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu drawls. Takes a long drag of his cigarette, pressing the smoke against his tongue. “I’ve heard about that enough times from shouyou. I think we deserve to have some fun every once in a while. Take our mind off things, else we’ll go crazy.” Exhales slowly.

Kiyoomi covers his nose with his free hand. Blinks the tears away from his eyelids that sting with the smoke. “Get that shit away from me, Miya. It fucking  _ reeks _ .” He feels his head spinning as he bites out the words, bile climbing up his throat as he speaks, suffocating him.

Atsumu sucks back in the cloud of smoke. “You should try it out sometime, Omi-omi,” he says. There is a glint in his heavy hooded eyes and Kiyoomi can’t place his finger on how it makes him feel.  _ Love makes you do crazy things.  _ And so, Kiyoomi takes the cigarette from his fingers and inhales, pushing the smoke out.

“Happy now?” Kiyoomi lets the smoke hit his throat.  _ Oh fuck.  _ He stifles a cough, hiding his face behind and Atsumu laughs at him, throwing his head back like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Fuck you, Miya.”

“Fuck me. I’m down for that, if you want to.” Atsumu grins. He takes the cigarette away from Kiyoomi. Takes a slow, heavy draw. Blows the smoke around Kiyoomi’s face, breathing against the dimple of his cheek. Grabs the collar of Kiyoomi’s shirt, pulling him closer to him.

Kiyoomi hitches a breath. He’s too close. Too close for comfort. But he lets himself go still, like a dead fish. His hands feel clammy when he wipes them on his jeans. Atsumu takes his silence, his stillness as an unspoken initiation, an unspoken invitation for him to touch him.

“Kiss me, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says, breath warm against Kiyoomi’s cheek. Then he leans in, merely centimeters away from his face. Traces a slow finger across, letting his touch simmer under Kiyoomi’s skin, before kissing his carefully-parted mouth. There’s something gentle in the way he touches him, then something vulnerable in the way he looks at him. There’s something greedy in the way he kisses him, pulling him down to earth.

Kiyoomi feels his wrists stop from shaking. The grayish tinge of his skin fades away, turning pink, turning warm. The way Atsumu is touching him, with cigarette smoke enveloping their mouths, makes him feel like he’s been burning for hours on end. And so, Kiyoomi allows him to hold the lighter, wanting more of the sensation. And so, he looks at him as he buries him under miles of ash and pumice. Watches as he turns him into dull aches.

Dry ice, into fire, into a boy. Atsumu turns the newfound pains and sharp bursts flooding through his joints into an act of worship. An act of love. Kiyoomi doesn’t slink back into the limits of his 7x12 comfort. Instead, he lets the other boy stand closer to him. Instead, he flicks his wrist further into the other direction, drives the joints of his body back into submission. Instead, he lets Atsumu learn the odd behaviors of his body, its lingering aches.

“I love you,” Atsumu whispers when he pulls away. The words blend together in one breath. Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu’s red wine-flushed face and lets him catch him smile— before whipping his head around, averting his eyes like he’s been caught. Like he’s been looking at something inappropriate on the family computer. Like he’s been looking at something he cannot have.

_ You only think that you love me when you're not sober _ , Kiyoomi wants to say. He doesn’t tell him that. Instead, he washes down the guilt he feels until it’s swimming in his chest and says, “Dumbass. I despise you.” Pinches the flame of the candle with his fingers, extinguishing it. Eleven years worth of his denial comes rising up again. 

(They fade into silhouettes in the middle of the night, a passing shadow against the light of day. Their anatomy falls into place with one another, the dips and grooves of their swaying bodies slotting into the right places.)

Salt pours down his skin from a crack of light in the sky. Kiyoomi watches the boy beside him, still wearing his sweat-stained jersey and the cigarette dangling on his parted lips. Scours the stars for even an ounce of hope that the pleasure won’t be just a passing memory, that the years he spent restraining himself from wanting too much won’t go to waste. Scours his body for the things that he has allowed himself to desire and finds that he has allowed them to consume him, eating away at him.

**vi. the blonde, warmed by the heat of the sun rays burning into the back of his neck, touches you and hears the beat of your heart, barely audible against the tremor of your hands when he holds you tight.**

Kiyoomi still remembers the first time Atsumu talked to him without biting out an insult or calling him names to piss him off. He still remembers how Atsumu looked at him that day. Catalogues it into the back of his mind, so he won’t forget this rare genuine show of tenderness.

In the corner of his eyes, Kiyoomi sees a head of bright orange hair and blinding smiles that look like they carry the full weight of the heat of the sun. He watches as he aims one of those grins toward his teammates, face brimming with fondness and chock-full with warmth— so bright that Kiyoomi feels his forehead trickle with a slow-forming sweat. 

Kiyoomi watches him as he turns his head up to face Atsumu and calls for a toss, jumping in the air like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Mizuno Waves kicking against rubber, accompanied by the sound of his hand slapping against leather. Serve, receive, set and block.

It’s a simple routine, but Shouyou’s hand hits the ball at the wrong angle, too fascinated with the way his jump has gotten two centimeters higher than his last record. The ball comes spinning out of bounds and hits the back of his Kiyoomi’s head. Kiyoomi swears, only loud enough for Koutarou who is standing beside him to hear, then doubles over, rubbing the back of his head.

Shouyou looks horrified the moment he catches sight of Kiyoomi, his mind showcasing memories of hitting his scary setter in the exact same way back in high school. (Kiyoomi has heard the same story ten times and a half since meeting Shouyou.) “Omi-san!” he calls out. Tugs the net up and ducks under it. “I’m so sorry!”

Atsumu jogs toward where they are, holding the ball in between his hands. “Omi-kun,” he says, “are ya okay?” He kneels in front of Kiyoomi. Hesitates, then reaches a hand out to touch him. “Hey. Look at me. You okay?” He looks into Kiyoomi’s eyes. “You should rest a bit.”

Kiyoomi tears his gaze away from him. Peels his eyes away from the stripe of sweat on the side of his head, away from his calculating gaze, away from the crease marring his forehead. He looks at Shouyou instead and instantly regrets it, feeling a weight against his chest.

There are tears threatening to flow from Shouyou’s eye and Kiyoomi doesn’t have the heart to tell him it hurts. “No, it’s fine.” Smiles— a genuine one. Gulps down his pride as well as the sting he feels on the back of his head. Ignores the throb, the pulse that he feels. “See?” 

Atsumu looks at him. Sighs at how stubborn he’s being at that moment. “You need some ice.” Hands him a freezing cold can of pineapple juice, with only its center warm from the heat of his hand circling around it. Then says, when Kiyoomi looks warily down at the can, “You can ‘ave it. I don’t want it anymore. Just take the can.”

Kiyoomi takes it and feels the tops of his ears flush red, hidden behind the thick curtain of his black curls.

♥︎

Kiyoomi still remembers the first MSBY Black Jackals afterparty he has ever attended. Remembers, as clear as day, the look in Atsumu’s eyes when he admitted he had never been to a party or drunk alcohol before. The other rushes to pour him a shot of vodka, then another.

Kiyoomi wills himself back into that moment like it was just yesterday that he got drunk off one nervous sip, off the way he forgets to  _ hesitate  _ before touching Atsumu. He watches, as the boy back then realizes he wants to kiss him before he even knows he doesn’t hate him as much as he wants himself to think. He watches, as his back then-self scoops out a handful of chips from the bowl with a clean travel spoon produced from his bag.

Kiyoomi feels his head spinning the moment he steps into the room, the soles of his shoes clacking against polished tiles, suddenly turning heavy against his feet, chaining him down to the ground. He feels someone’s hand touch the back of his neck and he flinches away, the movement almost a second nature at this point.

He twists his body around to face them, his body still shaking. From the cold of the air conditioning travelling across the room, from the warmth of their touch. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, sending shivers down his spine. He says, “Don’t fucking  _ touch _ me.” 

“Now, now. There’s no need to be rude.” Atsumu looks around to check if their teammates are out of sight, if Meian isn’t close enough to be able to hear them. Lets out a breath. Despite being as much of an asshole he is, Atsumu isn’t willing to let their captain hear Kiyoomi swearing at him. More about his pride than not wanting Kiyoomi to serve suicide runs the next day because of their quote-unquote dumb rule about not fighting. “Was just goin’ to ask ya if you wanted a drink or something.”

Kiyoomi blinks at him, uneasy. Pulls down the fabric of his mask to speak more clearly. “I don’t drink.”

“Then what the hell are you holdin’ a cup for,” Atsumu says. Sighs, then adds, “Try it, just this once, okay? Just let me pour you something. We gotta be friends or at least civil, like Bokkun always says, ‘cause we might ruin the team dynamic or somethin’ like that.” _A_ _truce_.

And so, Kiyoomi tips his cup toward him. Atsumu pours him a shot of vodka, promising that it doesn’t taste too strong. “Cheers,” Atsumu says, then they clink their red cups together and drink. Kiyoomi takes a deep, shaky breath before putting his lips around the rim of his cup.

Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi’s face and laughs, his golden brown eyes crinkling into crescents on his face. “See?” he says. “It doesn’t taste bad at all, right?” Pours them another shot, then another, until they get drunk enough to be able to tolerate each other’s presence for longer.

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. Doesn’t gratify his pride with an answer. Doesn’t say that he’s right, that he’s always been right about the things they argue about on court. Instead, he lets Atsumu bring his leather seat closer to him. Lets him take up more than a square of his marble space, lets him swing his feet toward him and brush his shoes against his ankle. Lets it climb higher up his leg.

Instead, Kiyoomi traces an airy finger across the flex of Atsumu’s muscles, firm to the touch like sinewy rope, bulging against the sleeves of his fitted shirt. He laughs at the startled face he makes. Laughs at the way his pupils widen, the way his nose crinkles at his touch. He laughs. Never stops laughing until the end of the night.

♥︎

Kiyoomi still remembers the first time he felt envious of someone else. He wonders,  _ How does it feel like to be loved, to be known by someone else?  _ Then a fleeting thought,  _ How does it feel like to be loved by Atsumu?  _ He tries to will the thought away, but it resurfaces.

Kiyoomi feels his heart pass down his throat when he takes a delicate sip of his morning coffee. He feels his ever-calculating gaze soften when he looks at him. He feels the faint beat of his heart that he has kept tucked away along with his belongings whenever he speaks. 

Kiyoomi watches as Suna from high school—Sunarin, Suna Rintarou—visits Atsumu during practice holding a brown paper bag plastered with the brand ‘Onigiri Miya’ across it. Watches as Atsumu’s face breaks into a grin, matching that of the sun shining outside of the window. Watches as Atsumu is all smiles when he looks at him. Watches as Atsumu takes the bag so delicately, like he is afraid of dropping it, like he’s afraid of crushing it.

Kiyoomi downs his bottle when he looks at Atsumu, trying to swallow the lump he feels in his throat, trying to blink back the tears in his eyes.  _ If this isn’t love, then what else do you think this is?  _ Love feels disgusting to him right now, a confession hidden away, lodged down his throat instead of brandished for the whole world to see. Love feels disgusting to him right now, like it must be something to be ashamed of, tucked away back to his memories beside torn photos from middle school.

He doesn’t even notice Shion sliding to his side, soles of his rubber shoes barely making a noise against the slippery floor. He’s holding the one-point-five liter bottle of Pocari Sweat in one hand, turning it up to Kiyoomi, waiting for him to nod at him, or at least turn his bottle vaguely toward his general direction. “Do you want a refill?” Kiyoomi doesn’t supply him with a nod. Shion takes this as an invitation to generate a conversation. 

“Hey,” Shion says. His eyes brush from Kiyoomi’s face that’s turning as pale as paper to his eyes that are red around the edges and purplish underneath. “Are you… are you alright?” He hesitates, calculating the look on his face before adding, “You want to talk about it or something?” The libero looks hopefully up at the other.

Kiyoomi twists his lips into an unfamiliar, forced smile. “No, I’m alright.” He refills his bottle instead. “Didn’t get enough sleep last night. Thanks.” Peels his eyes away from Atsumu when he waves both hands at Suna(rin).

**vii. how do you let go of something that you have always wanted when you have already let yourself grow attached to its meandering presence?**

Kiyoomi puts his arms around Atsumu, his long, nimble fingers moving further down his torso. Lets them linger before stroking him, his movements so quick and soft and so  _ gentle  _ that it almost feels like something out of Atsumu’s dreams, where Kiyoomi moans around him.

But this isn’t a dream. They’re lying beside each other in the empty bed of a dark motel room, hands trying to uncover as much of each other as they can in a night. This isn’t anything like a dream, and Kiyoomi is trying hard to make sure Atsumu remembers it the day after.

But things don’t always work out the way we want them to. Which is why Kiyoomi mistakes his acts of affection for love, confuses his boy-touch with human-warmth, blurs their bodies together. Which is why Atsumu thinks of Kiyoomi, wants him, but never enough to need him. Which is why Atsumu never knows what to tell him.

In this mad, magical moment, Kiyoomi imagines being brave, letting himself let go of the things he has always been afraid of. He pictures himself burying his head further down Atsumu’s inner thighs, letting himself be enveloped in his warmth. In this mad, magical moment, he imagines Atsumu telling him that he loves him,  _ too _ .

“Atsumu, what are we?” Kiyoomi says. He’s hoping for something, sure enough. Hoping for an answer. Hoping for the answer that he wants. Anything but nothing.

“What are we.” Atsumu repeats. His hand rests on the top of his head, his fingers carding across black curls. Ponders for a moment, before speaking again. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” he asks. To Kiyoomi, it doesn’t feel like a question. Feels like an ultimatum. Feels like he’s trying to bite him down. “I’m good with what we have.”

“What else?” Kiyoomi is desperate for an answer now. And so, he presses further, holding on to even a sliver of hope that there will be something. “Not just friends.”

“What else?” Atsumu looks at him. Breathes a slow, steady exhale from his nose. His hand stops curling around the grooves of Kiyoomi’s body, stops carving crescents on the soft skin. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

Kiyoomi swipes his finger across Atsumu. His touch is nothing close to gentle. His movements are rough as he draws a hand against him. “Friends don’t sleep with each other.” The backs of his eyelids burn with a wet, flickering flame. “Friends don’t do this. Do whatever the fuck we are doing right now.” His body feels heavy against the sheets that smell like lavender body wash.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, “you’re hurting me.” Whines as Kiyoomi accidentally drags the back of his diamond ring against the head. Stutters out, “Fuck, that’s good.”

Kiyoomi breathes out as Atsumu comes shakily all over his hands. “Atsumu, what do you think you’re doing to me?” he says. “Don’t you think you’re hurting me too?” Laughs. “Friends don’t fuck each other the way we do.”

“Omi,” Atsumu says, a moan dragging heavy on his tongue. “Let’s talk about this some other time. Please.” 

Kiyoomi isn’t too disappointed. He isn’t as disappointed as he thought he would have been. But still, he feels a tear falling from his eye. He holds back a whimper, but the tears keep falling even when Atsumu holds him so tight in his arms that there isn’t any space to breathe.

Sure enough, love comes crumbling down in front of him. Love isn’t easy, love isn’t a daydream. Five years worth of diligently crafting his own indifference against the world falls apart before his eyes. his pride that he has always deemed worthless comes crumbling back down to the ash and pumice that he was born from. 

Kiyoomi is twenty two, barely more than a boy that is still learning how to navigate the careful roads of desire and the confusing paths the wind leads him to, barely more than glass breaking itself down to its genesis. 

**viii. the blonde, all pale pink lips and dark brown eyes and sardonic smiles, looks at you and you feel something rising in your chest like a foil balloon, like a warm shower on a cold day.**

Kiyoomi still remembers the first time he has ever seen Atsumu, really seen, looked at him without any disdain. Still remembers the first time he has noticed Atsumu.

And so, Kiyoomi begins to notice the little things about Atsumu other people wouldn’t remember, keeping track of them like they are always something special to him, like they’re always something to feel a burst of pride in.

Kiyoomi notices, looks for the little things Atsumu does. Notices, loves the little things about him. It began with the little things when he realized how he felt about him. Nothing too significant, not too notable, but he began keeping note of them, like hoarding them in his mind.

Atsumu’s eyes are just like any other person’s eyes. All sharp edges and rough corners like every single part of his body, but also strangely delicate. Doll’s eyes, like a deer caught in the headlight. Soft lashes, soft creases.

Atsumu’s eyes are like no other person’s eyes. They’re brown, sure enough, brown like starfire and coffee from the bottom of his mug. But amber too, the slightest hint of orange ‘round the edges, golden-green in the sun.

Atsumu’s mouth that Kiyoomi has always been fond, so fond of kissing. Kiyoomi feels a sharp swelling in the pit of his stomach, like caterpillars coming out to play. His mouth that always looked so soft, so pink, that Kiyoomi couldn’t help but reach out to touch him. Smear his lips with his strawberry lip gloss, until he forgets his name.

Kiyoomi watches the way Atsumu eats. No less and no more than a trickle of soy sauce over  _ tekka maki  _ rolls. The  _ sushi _ rolls are always eaten in order, meticulously, going around the plastic container. Always neat, unlike Kiyoomi’s first expectation of him. His fatty tuna  _ onigiri  _ is held by both hands, held like something precious.

Atsumu’s hands that always seemed to linger a little bit longer after every sudden touch, after every swift brush of their fingers between the smooth application of tape to hand, after every agonizing trail of hand against him. 

Human touch seemed terrifying in those moments, but it was almost always intimate. Like he couldn’t possibly get enough. Like it was almost something familiar now.

“Motoya,” Kiyoomi says, his back hunched over the toilet seat after a long day of drinking. He looks almost weak, almost pathetic like this, that Komori couldn’t help but look at him with fear, with pity in his eyes. “Motoya,” more desperately this time, “I can’t  _ breathe _ .”

“Sakusa,” Komori says, “what the hell is happening to you?” He blinks the tears, tears born from pity, born of fear, born of anger, forming in his eyes away. “What is going on with you nowadays?” He holds Kiyoomi’s hair in one hand, holding a clean, moist towel in the other.

Kiyoomi wipes his mouth clean with the back of his latex glove. “Fuck, ‘Toya,” he says, hands still shaking as he stands to wash his hands, “I think I’m in love.”

**ix. how do you know if all of this, the union of your hands and the communion of your mouths in the dark, is love?**

Kiyoomi still remembers the first time he took Atsumu to their dorm room. Slept beside him for the first time. Looked into his eyes and saw more than hatred. Seen something close to fascination, something next to love.

Atsumu stands outside the gymnasium, hands on hips and face stretched in an unflattering frown, after a long, rigorous game that ended in their team losing. A point difference, but still a loss nonetheless. It’s heavy on the heart and piles the pressure on the setter, but Kiyoomi tries to kiss it better. Tries to use his lips, his teeth to take away the disappointment of the last botched toss.

Atsumu leads him to white sheets and dim lights, their liquor-flushed bodies pressed against one another, skin against mouth, hearts beating against each other. The sweet taste of Atsumu’s lips whenever he kisses him. The wild taste of Atsumu’s words spinning softly in his mind when he tells him he loves him— wants Kiyoomi. 

Kiyoomi nips his teeth against Atsumu’s palm, pressing his warm tongue against rough, calloused skin. Palm like sea salt, skin like watermelon summers. Traces a slow finger down his thigh until Atsumu bucks his hips.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, “I didn’t know you had a thing for being man-handled like this.” Groans when Kiyoomi palms him through the front of his jeans, his hand hot against his zipper. Bites back a whimper, eyes flashing white before his eyelids, when Kiyoomi rubs against his crotch.

There’s a knock on the door, but neither of them bother to check. The sound of light feet tapping against heavy wood echoes in the sliver of space under the door.

“Sakusa, where’d you put my charger—” Komori enters the room. Blinks at them. “Nevermind. Finish that up. I’ll cook dinner for all of us.” He leaves without saying a word, a box of chocolate striped cookies in his hand.

♥︎

Atsumu leaves the room smelling like cigarette smoke and geranium blossom detergent, smelling like Kiyoomi and the things he likes. Atsumu leaves the room as the only thing Kiyoomi wants, longs for, as of that moment.

Komori serves them bowls of golden pork cutlets over steamed rice, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Hey, lend me a hand here.” 

Atsumu stands and takes out two— three pairs of silver utensils from the plastic container in the middle of the table. Dips them in hot water, wipes them on a towel.

Kiyoomi looks at him before taking the utensils. Utters a quick  _ thank you,  _ without meeting Atsumu’s eyes.

A grin, as wicked as his flawless spike serves, dangles on Atsumu’s mouth before he speaks, the Kansai-ben heavy on his tongue. “Yer welcome, Omi-kun.”

Komori swats at Kiyoomi’s arm, but it’s light. A mere flick against his shirt. Kiyoomi doesn’t even stiffen. “Hey!” he says. “This is  _ so  _ unfair. How come he gets to call you a nickname when I have to call you  _ Sakusa? _ ”

Atsumu smiles. Looks at Kiyoomi, then the smile grows wider. Kiyoomi looks back at Atsumu. He doesn’t smile at him, but his softening gaze speaks enough for him.

**x. the blonde, under the dim ceiling lights, puts his hands at work and suddenly the words are gone.**

Summer drags its feet. The wind blows warm air on the top of his head, billowing through his hair until it frames him like a portrait. Kiyoomi stands, his shaking hands clasped behind him, in front of Onigiri Miya. Osamu is waiting for him, black sleeves rolled up his forearms.

“Hello,” Kiyoomi greets the other boy. Doesn’t reach his hand out for a handshake. Osamu doesn’t ask about it.

“Hello, Sakusa-san.” Osamu bows. “It’s been a while.” 

“Yeah, we haven’t seen each other since high school.” Kiyoomi ponders about this. “Nice seeing you again.” 

“So…” Osamu tries to break the silence. “What did you want to talk about?” He pauses, pursing his lips. “Wait, I’ll get you something to eat. Something you can eat.”

“I’ll have, uh, the one with  _ umeboshi _ ,” Kiyoomi says. A shiver passes through his spine, the thought of  _ onigiri _ handled and passed through hands unnerves him.

Osamu takes one look at him and shakes his head. “I’ll use new gloves before making yours.” Smiles gently. “I don’t want you leavin’ a bad review or something.”

“I’m not going to do that, you know,” Kiyoomi says, his cheeks flushing at the thought of being fussed over like a small child. “I’m not as much of a snob over food and all as you seem to think. I can handle eating an  _ onigiri _ .”

Osamu hums. “Sure, I believe ya.” He pauses, reaches over to clean his hands with a drop of sanitizer.

“Tell Suna to take care of him for me.” Kiyoomi looks at Osamu who’s looking at him, confused. A quiet, steady gaze before he says, “I mean your brother.”

“ _ What? _ ” Osamu’s forehead crinkles. “What does Suna have to do with this? What does he have to do with my brother?” He finishes rolling the  _ onigiri  _ with his hands.

Kiyoomi’s voice is barely a whisper when he speaks. “I think he likes Suna… or something like that.”

“You like him, don’t you?” Osamu asks. Silence fills the air, tension thick in them like a breeze. “Why didn’t you tell him? And he doesn’t like Suna. Not like that.”

“I thought he didn’t like me that way,” Kiyoomi says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at Suna. Talks about him.”

“But he told me that he loves you,” Osamu argues.

“He doesn’t love me,” Kiyoomi says. Chuckles bitterly, before adding, “He only loves the way I make him feel.”

Osamu’s brow furrows. “No,” he says, “you’re wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Kiyoomi says, a crease digging deep in his forehead. A shadow of his irritable, finicky past self. “How could you possibly know better than me about the situation when you aren’t even involved?” His face drops when he realizes how rude he’s being. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Osamu cuts him off. “I’ve known him longer than you have, so I should know the way he acts around people he likes. Have you seen the way he looks at you?” He sighs. Hands him his  _ onigiri  _ with the plastic packaging, then a load of tissue. “Enjoy your meal. Talk to him and don’t break his heart.” Laughs. “I promised our mother I’ll break the face of whoever it is that breaks his heart.”

Kiyoomi feels a lump in his throat. “Thank you.” Holds his hand up to wave at the boy dressed in all black.

♥︎

Kiyoomi comes to visit Atsumu the next day. Osamu looks at him, squinting his eyes, almost like a warning. His eyes are still trained on him as he moves toward his brother, even when he chops up a carrot for lunch.

Atsumu is sitting in their living room, hand mindlessly stroking the soft leather of their sofa. “Hey,” he greets lazily, “what’s up? Is there anything you need?” Meets Kiyoomi’s eyes before stretching his arms out wide.

“I needed time to think, but I’m sure about this now.” Kiyoomi sighs and takes a seat beside him.

Atsumu raises a brow. “Think about what?” Moves his hand cautiously toward Kiyoomi, nudging their fingers closer, wordlessly asking for consent to hold his hand.

“I wanted to stop doing this. Whatever this is we have right now.” The words ring harsh in the air and Kiyoomi regrets saying them. His breath feels heavy against his chest. “I don’t… I don’t want this. I want more of you.”

Atsumu lets out a shaky breath. “Omi, I was so scared. I thought you were going to break up with me right now or something like that.” Chuckles. “I like you, Omi-kun.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kiyoomi says. “I thought you liked someone else. Thought you liked Suna Rintarou.” 

“I was scared, Kiyoomi.” 

“Scared?” Kiyoomi says, exasperated. “Miya, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He sees Osamu peek out from the sliding door of the kitchen, holding a chef’s knife.

“Stop calling me Miya.” Atsumu holds Kiyoomi’s hands in his. His tone grows desperate as he speaks. “Call me baby. Tell me you like me too, Omi-omi.  _ Please _ .”

_ Love makes you do crazy things.  _ And so, Kiyoomi says the words. “I like you, dumbass. I’m in love with you.”

Atsumu reaches out to kiss him, his hands cupping his face, tongue warm against the side of his cheek. The words he wants to say, the speech he went over three times in front of the mirror are gone, and there is no time to stop, no space to speak but there is no need to talk. Not now, when the moment feels so right. Not now, when Atsumu’s hands feel so good wrapped around him. Not now, when the world is holding him.

Kiyoomi is twenty two and he hasn’t learned yet how to perfectly tune the way his glass silhouette moves over the warm bodies of human boys, but the one person he loves most cups his face and shows him how good it feels to be touched, to be loved, like all humans do.


End file.
